Fallout: Across the Pond
by HowAboutThisForAName
Summary: Having to handle four thousand misfits with enemies on all sides in the most hostile area of post-war London? Seems easy enough. OC's welcome.
1. Smile

**Note: Some things won't be architecturally or geographically correct due to lack of access to interior photos or images and Google Maps being a bitch.**

"When in doubt, take a drink. When in thought, take two drinks. When the crushing weight of the post apocalyptic world seems to be bearing down on your shoulders, down the bottle."

_~Anon._

Big Ben hadn't been a clock for very long when London's own Vaults opened.

In the year of 2077, across the pond and in the bombed out city of London, sixteen Vaults had been built to try and retain what little society remained with the explosive poverty and anarchic government. When the bombs fell, three of these Vaults were filled by various government officials, scientists and experts in any field deemed important.

The rest were for the civilian populace, but only those that could get in, and in the case of Vault Four had an overflow of people that exhausted their supply very quickly, leading to mass starvation and a hole full of corpses.

Vault Twelve on the other hand had an excess of weapons, and that's where Misfits Incorporated originated from; The Vault was overflowing with weaponised technology and half the people picked were of military backgrounds, with expansive and open training areas and a heavy emphasis on duty along with the only vehicles retained by any Vault, it was only a matter of time before, in the summer of 2269, these people found themselves opening the vault with the largest military type group in the British Wasteland and ready to put it to use.

Because war, war never changes.

…

The Lee-Enfield was a reliable weapon, what it lacked in accuracy it made up for in ruggedness and strength, rarely needing upkeep and demanding only minor encumbrance in exchange for a powerful shot to match the kick and a platform for additions and strips that made it the preferred choice of most mercenaries, or at least the Misfit militia.

This is what Major-General Damen Malone thought anyway, a gruff older man in charge of the City of London detachment of Misfits, and considered the grandpa of the regiment. He had four thousand soldiers under his command, and had to look after an actual bunch of misfits within the hardened ranks of their 'little' group in the most heavily hostile area of Greater London while surrounded on all sides by the fanatical Church of Thunder, stupid but intrusive Super Mutants, the remaining, sociopathic Royals operating around the corner in Buckingham, the elusive Order of the Thames and raiders everywhere else.

No pressure.

Misfits themselves operated out of Westminster Palace; Big Ben being levelled to the edge of the clock faces -which were smashed out- and set up with AA batteries, snipers and artillery. The Old Palace Yard held their two assigned vertibirds and the Victoria Tower was where Malone made his office, the windows boarded with planks on all sides aside the one facing across the Thames to the east. And of course they used the ancient House of Commons to their advantage as a meeting hall, but most soldiers just lazed about in it.

But instead of enjoying a round with his fellow soldiers downstairs here he had to sit and endure the hard task of writing a report of the past two months of activity, including the latest barrage of Super Mutants attacking down Whitehall.

Damen sighed, placing his inkwell pen down with some relief and shuffling the papers thoughtlessly. Before placing them atop an ever increasing pile set to leave the building but never actually doing so, thank god he had some spare rubber bands.

The common armour of the Misfits included combat armour in patchwork yellow, orange and brown, and commanders got a swish cape, so it was hard to mistake his Lieutenant for anything aside the young and handsome bastard he was. "Finished sir?" He asked, and Damen growled.

"Fuck you Parker." Was the uncanny response, and the younger gentlemen just chuckled, closing the book he read and placing it atop a high shelf.

Parker had neat black hair, a clean face and a set of dentures some would kill for. Malone on the other hand had the scraggly, dirty red-brown hair of a waster, a grizzly beard to match and cold blue eyes that didn't seem to match his yellowed teeth.

An aged fellow, to say anything, his common nickname of Grandpa coming from his 'immense age' as the more learned recruits liked to say, forty eight, something many others couldn't say they attained; as they were dead.

Aside that, the man never cared to put down his gun, the Lee-Enfield he fussed over like a baby girl resting upon his back despite the discomfort it caused him. His short cape was holed and tattered, and his armour had enough holes and dents to tell the story of his life in something similar to letters, as some people seemed intent on doing with their Vendetta style personae; they were dead too.

"I'll take that as a yes," Parker stated smugly, swaggering over and letting his eyes travel out the one unbarred window, a random explosion throwing up a great cloud of smoke, "How do you think Smiley will feel this time?"

"He always seems ecstatic, inhuman bastard..." Damen trailed off, thinking vaguely to his strange leader and mentor, the man wore naught but a tattered brown suit, various pins depicting smiley faces and a feathered fedora atop his head, holding up the handkerchief with a giant, toothy smile; a scary visage in the dark all things considered.

"I haven't seen the man for two years, what do you think?" He reiterated, Parker glancing sidewards at the older fellow.

"I think he sent you out here to prove yourself to him," he stated oddly seriously, out of character for the usually facetious man, "Thinks perhaps you were getting soft at HQ?" He theorised, and Damen snorted.

"I had eight of my bones broken by the time I was ten, three of them by him, personally, I don't think by any means you could consider me 'soft'," To emphasise his point, he made quotation marks as he almost spat the word, "You mean he wanted to get me seasoned, but that seems unlikely in and of itself, it's not like Vault Twelve was nestled in a basket of roses now was it?"

"True." Parker agreed, he had never been to the place, but had heard enough about the terrors that lay just outside the Vault in the form of giant, mutated Badgers with a taste for human flesh, though the babies were still adorable.

"In any event, let's catch a drink. Jasmine still open?" The eldest of the two shrugged off, standing and looking to Parker's wrist, the only watch he'd ever seen latched onto their like a giant, silver leech.

"It's always open, sir." Parker insisted.

"Tell that to Collins." His commander countered, and the two made their way down the nearby stairs with much jovial speed bringing the older of the two ahead, the mention for alcohol all the man needed to get his feet moving.

…

**So, A Fickle Debt was going somewhere I didn't want it to, so while you wait for that to be rewritten enjoy this little sausage I cooked up, should be pretty interesting considering the predicament, characters and setting.**

**OC's are welcome, but make them good, and reviews keep me going full steam, so do enjoy a good typing if you like the story, it's the least you can do in return for the content. Or so I think.**

**Isaac.**


	2. Grin

"And have this done before I make my sammich!"

_~Smiley._

The sound of bountiful jazz blared from the cracks in the metallic shell, and on the highest level of this city the three story saloon let it's sound echo out over the wall and even away towards the wasteland capital.

From his side, the man's entourage had someone knowledgeable in such things as music, since his age permitted the gathering of such, "Roy Brown," He stated simply, and the man at the head of the group smiled.

There were several people outside the bar, a couple making out, several people being courteous to those inside and smoking outdoors. However when he casually pushed the door open, he found that most were not so polite, as the air was musky and dim with smoke, and from the corners of the room lit cigarettes shined through the grey veil.

The music was more clear now, and the man noticed several people even dancing, something he hadn't seen people do for so long. Placing his feathered fedora atop a hat rack by the door, he walked towards the counter at the back of the bar with some thoughtless stride while two of his men stayed near the entrance of the bar, another accompanying him to take the seat beside him at the front of the bar.

There stood a rather pathetic looking Ghoul serving drinks, the man moving rather deftly about the small space for drinks and taking orders with the robust mind such monster men gathered after centuries of living, especially because their rotted bodies didn't really allow much dexterity to develop muscle wise.

Between the group the largest was the one to accompany his leader, a man armed in heavily damaged and patched power armour with yellows and oranges spray painted haphazardly, the sleeve and glove of an iconoclast replacing one arm. On his back sat a heavily modified flamethrower, as such that he carried smaller tanks of fuel rather than one larger tank atop his shoulders, which allowed him to carry more ammunition for the massive weapon.

The far smaller individual wore a brown, tattered suit, and when the Ghoul came up to serve him the layer of body armour, bandoleers and necklaces below the jacket were the first things he noticed. Next was his face, the man staring him down with a devilish grin, clean white teeth behind a pair of thin red lips.

His eyes were a mismatched pair, the left a natural looking blue while the right appeared yellow in one quarter, green in another and blue in the others, and the barman was sure the man had perhaps two cybernetic enhancement to the ocular region. This was accompanied by a soft, round and boyish face, flimsy blond hair that fell rather lazily to just below his ear and a Duchess type nose.

When he spoke, it was a counter-tenor that fit his childish association, "Whiskey for me, and beer for my friend." He stated matter-of-factly, the easy smile never leaving his face.

"Aren't you a little young for alcohol?" The Ghoul asked flatly, cleaning a glass as the surge of energy died down from his previous servings.

"You'd think so, but no." The younger fellow admitted, shrugging once and letting his eyes travel to the shelf where the bottles lay.

The Ghoul scoffed at the man's cheeriness, before grabbing a bottle and pouring a shot.

Placing it in front of him, the man grabbed it slyly with one hand -tongue out of his mouth like some kind of K9- and let his other hand travel under his jacket to his shoulder.

He shut his eyes, as if savouring the taste, and heard a great commotion as he chugged the liquid, and then an eerie silence.

Looking over the rim of his glass, he noticed the Ghoul gone, and instead a revolver placed against his forehead, wielded by a greying old man with a fancy blue vest. He could tell that the armoured fellow was pointing his flamethrower at the man, who in turn had a combat shotgun -used by the ghoul- poking over the bar.

But the tell-tale sign of a laser sight rested against his temple stopped his trigger finger, and the blond turned to stare rather absent-mindedly at his own Ghoul clothed in beret and jacket and aiming a well polished rifle at the bartender.

Of course he was cut off by a knife at his throat, the red headed whore the suited fellow had spied earlier holding a scowl on her face even with the pneumatic glove used by his last bodyguard wrapped around her neck, his hood fluttering down to show dark strands of hair.

The man removed his hand, and placed the glass down, standing with a heavy push -laboured almost- and turning now that the fun had died down, the revolver never leaving his form.

"I'm looking for recruits." He stated outwardly, and turned back to who he guessed was Moriarty, "Have this on placed on your walls both exterior and interior, I'd very much appreciate it."

The man snatched the papers away, and looked over them briefly with a methodical scan, "Misfits Incorporated? Are you sick in the head lad, Talon's got the wasteland locked down for contracts, if that's what you're after."

"Oh don't be so naïve, we have an entire country and continent to scour for settlements. But I heard that the Capital Wasteland is something akin to civil, and a good place to find recruits." The strange fellow enticed, and he could tell that people around the bar were truly interested.

"Anyone interested will need to be ready by two PM tomorrow afternoon, out the front of your humble abode," he explained, and turned towards the door, "Excellent pay for the danger, it's well worth it if you're thinking of joining Talon, we pay more."

"And where are ye gettin' this payment from then?" Moriarty asked sceptically, and the big, armoured fellow answered this question.

"Corpses."

There was a long silence after this, before the blond lead of the group snapped his fingers and watched as his group dispersed their offensive position, instead falling in line behind the man as he made his way to the door.

The bar owner slowly lowered his pistol, a scowl plastered across his face, before looking down at the papers in disgust. But he was cut off from his mental tirade by the clinking of caps as a bag of the items was thrown a good two metres over shoulder by the Ghoul sniper, landing where the man once sat.

How one gathered such legends.

…

That was forty years ago, Malone remembered, being one of the few overseas individuals recruited by the Misfits. There were twenty others like him that still lived, and most of them save another officer in Ireland still worked in the remains of the US.

He'd been eight at the time, working odd jobs around Megaton and the Capital Wasteland before his mother had been approached by the strange fellow in a brown suit. For five hundred caps he'd been purchased, just like that.

Malone didn't resent Smiley for that however, the man gave him a steady income, something to do with his life, training and skills that had gotten him out of innumerable scrapes and three square meals a day. Now he worked here, in London, being one of those few hundred or so people that could say they'd literally been overseas.

And in London, or better stated the ruins of London, there was a junk town aboard Westminster Bridge named -rather unoriginally- Bridgetown. This reminded him of Megaton, because it was a walled city with large, powered gates and built upon itself as it saw fit, creating a slum like amalgamation of corrugated iron, rebar and cement with one central road and countless walkways above, casting interesting shadows and giving cover from the generally rainy existence that the populace lead.

This had actually sprung up around Misfit's HQ, not the other way around, former raiders, traders and refugees settling atop the bridge and supplying the company with food, medicine and supplies in exchange for protection. It was a win-win situation, or at least as much as it could be in the post apocalyptic wasteland.

When he had bothered sending his reports, Smiley had responded with a lacklustre approach to the town, saying that this wasn't the first time it had happened and that if Malone so desired to protect them it didn't really mess with his own morale compass, and when you worked under the man that was very important.

Typical of Malone as a result was to journey into Bridgetown after a hard day's work for a drink at the Jasmine Kettle, both a bar and tea house, it was often full of both his own company's soldiers and snobby traders who thought themselves aficionados in the art of tea making. Truth be told only the shop's owner, Gabby, was aware of this art, and so she never ran out, her two assistants and even Misfits running out to get her papers, string and that sort of thing, if not directly from the merchants she served.

However Malone hadn't made it there as of yet, and instead stood before the automated gate of Bridgetown, three of his own soldiers atop it with a variety of weapons and the actual entrance open on this side for practicality's sake, as Misfits were often going to and from the HQ, even as some passed Malone.

Parker was by his side, and wondered why his superior was staring up at the gates, and voiced this concern. "It's not what I'm looking at." Came the gruff reply, and Parker positioned himself behind the man with some scepticism to see what the man was looking at.

Clouds were forming, off in the distance, swirling around a central point.

"Strange, but this has happened before, I'm sure it's nothing." Parker assured, but the bearded fellow mumbled something under his breath.

"Not this time of year."

After another moment of surveying the thunderous darkness several miles away, Malone sighed and kept on moving, passing under the gate and into the street that made the central district of Bridgetown.

Merchants on all sides called towards the throngs of people, and children and ruffians ran by in joy and mischief, respectively. Above many people looked down from up to four stories high, and wires and lanterns and planks made a criss crossing pattern like that of a retarded spider, at least that's what Damen thought.

He watched his own charges attempt to whoo the local girls, and he looked down alleys as he passed them to see men in trench coats selling Jet and Psycho. His keen eyesight allowed him the perception to see Rats -children with no family or home- stealing from stalls and his even more intense sense of smell granted him the pleasure of smelling various scents wafting from the restaurants and pubs on all sides.

It wasn't heaven, no, that was a dream no one would attain in this dark existence they lead. But it was certainly close, and that's all they could really ask for.

Despite the alluring smells and sounds apparent on all sides, it was the Jasmine Kettle that drew his attention the most, the smell and sound of tea leaves and boiling water easily definable amongst the rambunctious attack on the senses assured by Bridgetown's cuisine and pleasure.

He rounded a sharp corner that broke off from the relatively straight path so many clustered themselves in, and found himself staring at the predominantly green attire of the small building afforded by the throngs of people attempting to get a taste of the sophisticated liquid their ancestors apparently drank so often.

It was half open, half not, the building extending with about ten round tables set out with two or three chairs each, and this was protected from the rain -as it pelted down now- by a large tarp connected to two larger buildings by it's sides, Gabby's establishment one of the few that didn't have another stacked atop it, and so it had to care for itself in the weather department, but did have a nice view of the river, as irradiated and garbage strewn as it was.

The familiarity of the place put Malone's tense suspicions at ease, and he almost found himself smiling as he approached the bench that Gabby worked so smugly behind. The woman was roughly half the age of Damen, and possessed the grey hairs and laugh lines of a working woman, but she remained pretty, in her own sort of way. With red hair tied back in a tight ponytail, and a pair of determined brown eyes, she was well aware of her place in the world, and she seemed rather proud of it.

Of the six stools that stood by the bar, only two of them were occupied, the time of day not one associated with drinking hot beverages, and instead Malone found himself sitting a seat down from one fellow with enough space on his other side to give Parker some room from the second man.

Gabby was chatting to the first one, on Malone's left, and he couldn't help but overhear the thinly veiled flirting between the proprietor and what he guessed was an Australian by the accent, and promptly cleared his throat to gain the former's attention.

She 'oohed' unprecedentedly, like she had the right, and excused herself from the Australian fellow to serve Malone.

"Just give me the strongest alcoholic drink you've got." Malone ordered, and Parker -being the sophisticated prick he was- instead had some herbal tea prepared.

The Major-General's attention was caught by the Australian however, as he moved a seat down and smiled at the older fellow. Severely irked by this motion, he cleared his throat when the man didn't say anything.

"You're the Misfit's leader aren't you?" He asked, and Malone nodded slowly in response, "That's neat, but have you been between continents?"

He was about to nod again, but the man cut him off, "Four of them?"

Allowing his eyes to flick over his form; the dark duster, various miscellaneous trinkets over and under it, the gas mask hanging around his neck. His weapons too, with what looked like a tanto tied to his chest, a grenade launcher with a golden star peeking over his left shoulder, another rifle he couldn't identify peeking over the other.

Travelled, yes, four continents of travel? Malone had his doubts.

"What do you want kid?" He asked, and the raven haired man lit up with joy.

"I was hoping you'd say that," He looked around as if they were being watched, "Carter, Carter Smith. Looking for work." The Australian introduced, and extended a hand energetically.

Taking it, Malone snorted derogatively, another one of those people, "Major-General Malone."

Parker was spying on the two from his own seat, looking sceptically at the stranger. Gabby was preparing the tea and soon Malone and Carter launched into a conversation about a few couriering jobs that the former may have needed, and Carter was bubbling with eccentricity and anticipation at the idea, an 'excuse to get back on the road', he admitted.

And this went on for a while, a good twelve bottles between the Major-General and the young mercenary softening the mood, and making for an interesting afternoon.

If only Parker hadn't been so jealous the entire time.

…

**This was a bitch to write, I lost the USB holding the first iteration of it, then I had to rewrite the entire thing and attempt to introduce Carter without seeming to... Douchy about it, you know, those types of story where it says "This was X, he had Y hair and Z eyes".**

**Anyway, R&R, submit an OC for all I care, best to just say you're going to and then I can PM you with the specifics. Also, Gonna introduce two characters made by the first reviewer, Chief Wolfee. Then we can get down to the nitty-gritty, something I really hope to touch on in this fic.**

**Isaac.**


	3. Grimace

Tommy was a meek child, small and soft hearted unlike many of his counterparts, with a heart shaped face and bright green eyes, Carter always made a point to comb his brother's hair, the brown locks neat and his features clean, as he preferred the crook of a book rather than the adventure of the wasteland.

Carter was forced to take the boy with him, not having the heart to abandon his younger brother to the abusive mother he'd walked out on, and had learned a few things along the way as a result, Tommy often doing such things that required a finer touch, like learning new languages or decoding computerised safes, and the two brothers made a good team when they did travel together.

However, as he approached the Misfit compound, Carter sighed in resignation that this would not be one of those times, the dangers of deepest London more than anything else they'd come across aside that one trip to Tokyo so long ago, and Tommy was three then.

Now he was ten, and Carter was twenty nine, but the former still looked like a five year old, the latter having just aged well, or so were the genes in his family.

He held his younger brother's hand, something not many people would have done even before the Great War, especially with their little brothers, but Carter was not so cynical, and had been raised with at least that ideal in his mind.

Looking up at his older brother, his large jacket belittling his form even more, Tommy asked with some plea "Why can't I come?" though he didn't whine, unlike many children that still felt the need in a survivalist setting such as this.

"I will be passing through the heart of London with an army of Raiders, Super Mutants and former British Royalty driving down on me, it would not do to bring you along." He stated matter-of-factly, something he did often with the small boy.

"Okay..." Tommy mumbled, looking to the ground sadly, never one to argue when faced with a solid explanation, something he'd copied off Carter.

"Hey," Carter stated with a strained smile, stopping their wake and kneeling down in front of the boy to place his hands on the child's shoulders, even when they stood just out front the compound, a pair of guards looking at him curiously, "I'll be back, I'll even bring back a souvenir if you want."

Tommy's eyes lit up, subconsciously shuffling his backpack at the thought, the thing filled with trinkets from across the world, "Really!?" He asked with sprite.

"Of course, how could we travel to Great Britain without a few here-says? That'd just be silly." He assured, before rising and offering a hand again, which the ten year old took immediately.

"You promise?"

"I promise."

And with Tommy's eagerness back they travelled into the building.

Once inside, they had been lead through the rather messy place to a large staircase that emptied out at the top of one tower, where Malone's office was situated, and in there stood said man and his Lieutenant Parker, alongside several other sergeants and captains.

"Hello Carter, this is the man I was talking about." Malone greeted, turning to his contemporaries with some relief, as if they had been sceptical at his very existence.

Seemed they were, his hodgepodge display of weapons and trinkets alongside the child a noticeably unimposing visage, but he stepped into the centre of the room before the desk with Tommy hiding behind his leg, the shy little thing.

"What a fucki-" A gruff man, younger though than Malone, began, but never had the chance to finish his statement as Parker cuffed him around the back of the head.

"Not in the presence of a child! I will not have his mind soiled!" He hissed, turning and giving a curt bow to Carter, whom only cocked his head, "My sincerest apologies, some men don't know how to speak around children." His voice filled with spite towards the end, his eyes scanning over the soldiers below his command.

"And what's this child's name anyway?" Malone asked, before leaning over his desk and watching the kid, "Hello there young man, I'm Major-General Malone, what's yours?" He greeted, nod being so much kind and soft as he was polite and understanding, something that coaxed the boy out more than the two women of the commanding contingent oohing and aahing over him.

"T-Tommy." He stuttered, poking his head out briefly before hiding it halfway, holding his breath as he waited for their response. This came in the form of the women and several of the more flamboyant officers cooing in delight at his voice and face, his adorableness breaking the ice with them immediately.

"And how old are you, Tommy?" Malone continued, tenting his fingers in thought.

"Ten." The boy stated with some confidence, Carter smiling at the man's raised eyebrow.

"Really?" This was questioned to the mercenary, Malone sceptical of the boy's size and diction, something that would be better founded with someone half his age.

"Our family ages well, I'm twenty nine, for example." He explained, and the commanding officers were astounded, his features making them see him nothing more than nineteen or so.

"In any event, this is the package," Malone pointed to the papers, which had been stacked and roped together with special adhesive bands, "This is the down-payment," He pointed to a small box beside the papers, "And this is the contract."

Approaching the desk, Carter grabbed the box first and opened it, finding several hundred caps stacked in neat rows, he then closed the lid and tossed it to his younger brother, something that Malone found mildly surprising, "If I find that any of his things have been stolen, I'll rip out the perpetrators intestines and string them about this tower." He warned, his voice low so that Tommy couldn't hear.

"I'll make sure any misdeeds are paid in full," Malone reassured, and placed a hand on the papers and a hand on the contract, "I presume we have a deal?"

"Mr. Malone, I read documents before signing them." He stated smugly, snatching up the document and scanning it briefly, the room in a tense silence for the few minutes that it took, "I don't need an escort." He noted over the edge of the paper, his eyes looking unimpressed.

"It's company policy, you have no choice in the matter," Malone reiterated, before clearing his throat, "Lest your child be caught stealing all of a sudden because someone refused to take the job."

Instead of answering verbally, Carter withdrew his tanto in record time and had it pressed against the commander's throat, eyeing his viciously at the thinly veiled threat, "Don't talk about my brother!" He hissed lowly, though Tommy's vision was obscured.

Unlike his commanders however, Damen was unfazed, "Just policy, Mr. Smith." he stated lowly, and kept the gaze of Carter for a long while before the latter withdrew.

"Fine, but only to the half-way point." He accepted, sheathing his tanto and picking up the inkpen set aside for him.

"Everything in the fine print shall happen as it always does, we are not some common mercenary company," Malone reiterated once more, clearing his throat and standing, looking over Carter's shoulder and giving a ghost of a smile too Tommy, "Dismissed." He called, and the officers filed out, all but Parker leaving the room.

"Do you like books, Tommy?" the Lieutenant asked, walking over and kneeling in front of the boy, managing to look friendly despite the combat armour and Lee-Enfield.

"Yes sir, I've read all the great works, Mrs Dalloway and the Desiderata are my favourites!" He exclaimed, showing off his learned nature, and as Parker gazed over one shoulder to look at Carter he saw the man smirking smugly.

"We do a lot of travelling." He stated simply, before packing the documents into a 'safe box' by his waist and watching as Malone scrolled up the contract, before motioning to Tommy.

"We'll allow you to say your goodbyes."

"Thanks," He stated sombrely, watching the two retreat out of the room before coming down to kneel in front of his brother once more, "I'm really going to miss you, you know that right?" he asked, and the boy nodded vigorously, obviously trying to keep back tears, "Chin up, you'll get to do all sorts of things while you're here, as they used to say around these parts 'keep a stiff upper lip'." He coaxed, and the young boy let out a trembling smile.

"I wish you didn't have to go." He mumbled, and was pulled into a tight hug as a result.

"We neither," He admitted sadly, a tear rolling down his cheek. He was rarely to far away from his younger brother, the boy having played tag with the other kids when he had been at the Jasmine Kettle, "This'll give us the money to get to the US though, that's where Uncle Roger is, remember?"

"Yeah." Tommy nodded, tears flowing down his face as he nodded powerfully, trying to shake away the sadness and mild fear he felt for his older brother.

"You can read all sorts of things while you're here, and I'll see about having your gun fixed. You'd like that wouldn't you?" Carter smiled, pulling back from the boy and placing his hands on Tommy's shoulders, but at the boy staring at the ground in melancholy, he lightly grabbed his chin and brought it up so that their eyes met, the green orbs they both possessed a constant reminder.

"Do you remember what I told you?" He asked, and Tommy uhhed for a moment before answering.

"Smiths make steel, Smiths are forged from steel." He recited, and Carter nodded, the cheesy statement something he'd found in a book a while ago.

"Good, now, you stay here, Malone and Parker will be back in in a moment." He ordered, kissing the boy on the forehead and standing. He ruffled Tommy's hair once more and walked away, leaving the sad but tough child all on his lonesome for a moment.

Outside, he came close to Malone and stated seriously, "I am serious, if he is hurt, or his things are broken, or anything bad happens to him, I will torture the man responsible for six days before killing them."

Malone looked disturbed by the vivid representation he was given, and nodded slowly, "I assure you on my grave that he will be under the best protection that I can afford to give him."

"You do that." Carter growled, before walking off, being joined quickly by an armoured fellow that must have been the escort.

Malone stared after him, and then to Parker, the two sharing a glance before he cleared his throat, "Get me Amanda."

…

**Writer's block is a bitch.**

**R&R, Thank you to Chief Wolfee and ark1999 for reviewing and submitting OCs, they'll be appearing soon, I assure you.**

**Thanks for reading, Isaac.**


	4. Smirk

A wise man once said that half of England was urban jungle, and the other half was just jungle, and that was true to a degree.

Whereas central, south and east London for example all held the domain of a rainy and cold landscape of grey husks and watered down posters the north and west had been completely reclaimed by the wild, tropical plants flourishing in the post war heat. So the duo that now slashed their way through every thicket this way and that were just glad to have gotten out of Ireland, which was essentially a tropical high land rainforest, if such a thing were ever to exist.

Locals had been friendly though.

The man forefront to this constant assault just to get through the blasted trees and shrubbery had been the beginnings of a Ghoul no less, and was simultaneously glad and cursing that his sweat pores had begun to rot away, the harsh reality of too much radiation something he swore at as they clambered through the radiation free jungle that overcame them, though you'd never realise it with the face wrap and hat he wore.

Behind him, chattering away like some mutated chipmunk -which they had come across three hours back-, a younger woman with what appeared to be a jumpsuit of some description, armoured and adorned with the number 63 here and there, most indubitably across her back, and other various tools and equipment were strewn about their forms aside the obvious weapons, and this made them appear somewhat capable despite their pre-disposition to the place.

"So, Jynx, when we meet this cousin of yours, what are we going to do?" The girl asked brightly, and the Ghoul-to-be just grunted to be patient for the moment as hacked away at a particularly prudent bush.

"Get work, get information, that's all my cousin cares about, it's 'currency', something like that." He explained curtly, before stepping over the butchered remains of the plant life.

Looking dissatisfied, the girl quickly hopped over as well and watched as the man scrambled up an outcropping of rocks, and soon joined him to find a breathtaking site.

Where they stood, attainable footing fell short in the form of an overtly large cliff, and below saw mountains framing grasslands that stretched for miles, a short breeze blowing over their forms until it hit the river, causing the lightest of ripples on the calm surface. Teamed with the somewhat cloudy day that while keeping colours desaturated allowed beams of light to pass through like a message from God.

"The Thames," Jynx noted, pointing to the river with the end of his machete before spying down below, spotting what looked a base on one of it's banks, "Misfits."

"What?" She asked, squinting to get the same view as the seemingly omniscient man.

"You heard of Talon Company?"

"Yeah?" She answered, though it came out more a question than just that.

"There like them, though much more dangerous, and luckily aren't sitting there to keep chaos roiling," He elaborated, and began walking along the edge of the cliff, "Must be a way down somewhere around here."

She looked at the base for a moment longer, before rushing after her companion, "Wait, so they're the good guys in this situation?"

"There are no good guys in this situation." He replied sombrely, paying more attention to where he was walking then to the conversation.

"Jynx, you know what I mean!" She whined, and he rolled his eyes.

"For our means, yes, though if you piss them off they'll hunt you down to the ends of the Earth, there's no where they won't follow, I heard their leader's a psychopath, but 'in a good way'." The man stopped for a centre, looking to the blurry sun in thought, "Never come across a good psychopath, though apparently a lot of them exist."

The girl looked annoyed at the Ghoul, though seemed to brighten up when she saw a collection of vines hanging over the edge by some trees, "Look there!" She stated, beginning to sort of half run half scamper over as she avoided all manner of sharp rocks and ankle twisting roots.

"No! Athena!" The man yelled suddenly, realising what she was going to do, and began running over as fast as his slowly decaying legs would take him.

But he was too late, and with a loud "WEEE!" the girl had jumped off and into the vines, dislodging several and allowing her to swing across the cliff face with much grace, her companion looking agitated as she swung and slowly but surely found her way to the ground, dropping mid flight to roll for a time as the long grass protected her.

Muttering threats and annoyances, the man briskly followed with a hard jump and grabbed the nearest vine, allowing his skin to burn as he simply gave way to gravity, bearing downwards at an increasing rate before he increased the pressure of his grip and slowed down towards the bottom, stopping with an unceremonious 'oomph' and standing straight to find the girl before him smiling coyly.

"No." He lectured curtly, and began his way through the grass, looking to his hand to find both his glove and some of his skin missing, the joys of Ghoulification apparent even in the wilds of England.

At least his zombie smell was nullified, and that was something to look forward to, in his opinion, lest he lose much optimism for anything at all.

…

Carter wasn't particularly fond of this 'escort' of his, apparently being taken to a FOB out west before the man stayed there and waited for him to return, if he didn't within the assigned time-frame, the man would go back on his own, and report the bad news.

He had learned the man's name to be Noah, Noah Bagby, but little else, his face and form even hidden under the salvaged Power Armour he wore, Misfits written hastily across his helmet and a trench knife hanging from his chest.

Every step was punctuated with a metallic hiss, every movement causing steam to burst from the engine on it's back, every head movement creating a deep chaffing sound, and it bugged Carter, who was used to being in the shadows.

This man instead walked down the middle of the road, the beginning of trees and such making him stand out against the stark green and brown, carbine held in hand and the whistling causing Carter to grate his teeth and pinch his thigh in the hopes of not exploding at the man.

Instead, he came up beside the man and asked with as much civility as possible, "Could you perhaps not make so much noise?"

Bagby regarded him casually, before coming to a stop; Carter took a step forward before spinning so he could face the man head on, arms crossed and eyebrows knit. Instead of answering verbally, the armoured individual instead grabbed the sawed off shotgun at his hip and casually fired both shots into the air, clearly entertained with how Carter flinched with each shot.

"What are you doing mate!" He growled loudly, before the man put a finger to where his lips would be without the helmet.

"Shh."

"Ooh you sneaky little-"

…


	5. Monotone

**Sorry about the wait, first I got sick, then I had a massive load of homework loaded onto my shoulders, then I got terrible writer's block, and now I'm administrating a forum so I was working on that.**

**In any event, enjoy.**

"_It's not so much what I avoid as it is what I run into, dodging bullets is one thing, stepping on a landmine sorta nullifies that."_

_-Anon._

Amanda had two children, and she loved them with her heart and soul, she also cared for many of the other children of the Misfits, the inevitable something they berated but didn't attempt to stop, London was a shit hole and they all knew, people needed a release from that.

So sex was the alternative, and without a condom manufacturer nearby -or in existence, one would sombrely muse- babies were unavoidable. She herself had been lectured staunchly by Major-General Malone about proper conduct, and put on leave until her children turned eight, at which point they would undergo training as Misfits until they eighteen before being posted in official roles and duties, and if their intellect or what have you was high enough, they would be sent to special training nearer the headquarters in the jungles out west.

This made her feel Tommy was a lost opportunity, the boy was an obvious genius, he was in good shape and was probably less naïve than people twice his age, looking thoughtful and somewhat wistful as he flicked through old documents and books around Malone's office, whom had allowed the child to do so on the condition he didn't bother him, Parker instead sufficing to answer questions and queries about very few words and more things of philosophy.

Amanda instead sat in front of Malone's desk, waiting for him to finish writing out a document, clearly a letter judging by the snippets she could spy and the scrawl of which he wrote it. But both had an ear out for Tommy's words, interested in what he might have to say.

The boy looked up from an old tome, and mumbled off handedly "War could've been avoided."

Malone raised an eyebrow, very aware the child meant the Great War, and paused for a moment to see if the child would continue, but instead found himself drawn back to the document as the boy did the same with his book.

"Oh?" Parker asked, taking a stride to get by Tommy's side, peering over his shoulder and looking at the script.

"The Americans fired first, but only in response to the Alaskan Campaign. Had they not been so paranoid it would have been about a week before the Chinese withdrew their forces from the other US territories. The bombs might never have been dropped... Just a theory." He shrugged, before closing the book and putting it away gingerly.

Malone harrumphed at that, "If I have a bomb, I'm gonna want to use it. War's inevitable. It was then, still is today, hence why o'er my shoulder you can hear gun fire and explosions off in the distance."

"That's a rather pessimistic world view mister Malone." Tommy replied meekly, clearly afraid of the large man, and Amanda looked sympathetic as the boy withdrew, moving to stare out the window.

"Don't make it false."

"Sir." Parker implied assertively, and the older man snorted.

"What, you expecting me to stop bein' me cause a kid's in the room. I've already cut back on the swearing," The man turned to Amanda, and began scrolling up the document he had written out, sealing it with a piece of tattered ribbon, "Take this to Grand General Smiley, make sure you get there before young mister Smith."

"Yes sir." She replied obediently, taking it from him and standing before setting off towards and door and out of the room.

Tommy had thought the man meant him, before realising it was likely Carter they meant, and this worried him, though he didn't voice his concerns.

Trust was such a hollow thing nowadays anyway.

…

When they approached the gate, Athena and Jynx were met with a rather unsavoury pair of deployed turrets and a smug looking fellow dressed in yellow, orange and brown combat armour wielding a bulky pistol that Jynx identified as a 5.56.

The man was young, with blond locks and a dark complexion, and he looked at them with a superior smirk that spoke of his luck in life, and his confidence as a result, "Well, well, boys. Looks like we have more foreigners on our doorstep... Yanks I presume?" He asked thoughtlessly, leaning on the railing set above the main entrance.

"We were wondering if we could spend the night!" Athena called, and the man flashed her a devilish grin.

"Might do." He stated slyly, and while Athena was too naïve to notice the underlying message Junx was not, and stepped slightly in front of her protectively, "In any event, we'll be confiscating your weapons until you leave, sorry, it's policy."

The two were a bit hesitant at the thought of giving up their weapons, but decided it was a better deal to get inside unarmed then it was to stay outside while armed, the beasts of England a lot more unsettling than not having a gun under your pillow.

"Fine." Jynx answered for both of them, and watched as the large metallic doors slowly swung open to allow entry, "But I don't like this one bit."

…

Carter watched from his own position in the shade, the makeshift café not nearly as lovely as the one in Bridgetown, though served his needs well enough, he had been allowed to keep his weapons partly because he was on official Misfit business but also because he had Bagby with him, and was somewhat grateful to the man for that.

He had many unique weapons and he didn't want a bunch of strangers handling and possibly stealing them, so the fact he was allowed to walk around fully armed had been a relief, as opposed to the two strangers that now walked in, getting patted down and stripped of their weapons, the taller of the two very unsettled by this as he shook the hands off of him and instead passed the weapons to the soldiers surrounding him.

The duo then made their way over to the café, sitting only a table away and beginning a conversation that was mostly the girl taking in her surroundings with vigour and wonder, something that Carter found amusing with his years of experience.

It was a short time later that the Ghoul -as proven by the voice- stated he'd retrieve some lunch and promptly walked off to do so before Carter leaned back in his chair so that he was leaning alongside the woman, giving her an easy smile despite the jump it gave her.

"Hey there, checkpoint's a bitch isn't it." He greeted, and the girl recovered rather well, something he gave her credit for.

"Yeah, I suppose, but surely it's just to keep themselves safe, what if a suicide bomber or something was to come inside, that would be less than pleasant." She replied, and Carter laughed.

"True, but then again I did see them patting about your chest and thighs a little too much ma'am, you'd do well to watch yourself." The man countered, and Athena blanched at the formality of which he'd addressed her.

"Please, I'm not apart of the military, call me Athena." She introduced, and Carter did the same.

"Smith, Carter Smith." If the girl had been any more intuitive she'd have realised he was using reverse psychology, though as this Athena seemed in wonder about the world he could only wonder if she had known the joys of sex yet, something he hadn't had for a while since while travelling with Tommy.

He was wary however of the Ghoul that stared at them a way's away, not interfering quite yet while Carter dragged his chair over and began a conversation with the girl, and the man felt this would be a welcome challenge, to see if he could whoo this girl even with her obvious protector standing guard.

Or so was his kind of Australian humour.

…


	6. Seething

**So first things first, I'm quitting the schedule, simply because schedules don't work for me. If I withdraw from something it's for good reason, and if I try to soldier on through that and get something out in time then it'll come out pretty shittily due to lack of refinement and basic beta'ing. So that's gone, I will not abandon this story, and it will be longer than a Double Edged Sword, but it will be updated when I care to update it, and hopefully that will be often.**

**My love for Fallout is to great to leave this story unfinished, and I really enjoy interacting with this community, the information you people have already given me is very much needed, and you will see that in this chapter.**

**Now, onto another bit of news.**

**I need a beta, just throwing that out there for now, I'll likely elaborate on it next chapter, but I've rambled enough for the moment; enjoy.**

**Oh! And I almost forgot, I'm gonna be that dick and put two OCs together from two completely different authors, see what happens!**

It occurred to Henry Delacroix a great many things. Whether it be the fact London looked less and less like the city it had once been and more a beach jungle- brought on by the fact much of the city was overgrown with rampant plants and quite a lot had been inundated after the backing up of it's sewers and water pipes alongside the rise in sea levels given the snow caps in northern Europe and elsewhere had melted to allow such increases.

Or maybe it was the scarcity of life and activity that once existed, he'd seen a holotape of Old World London, a sprawling city of giant skyscrapers and bustling everymans, what he'd read as a 'documentary' on the tape gave a view into a life that made him envious.

He kept it stashed away in his pack, occasionally bringing it out when he found a working terminal to just watch the people, and since then he had associated faces with personalities, given them names, given them lives, and those lives had a tendency to mirror where he'd grown up, but it was usually at that point he would eject the tape, or so the horrors of the wastes dissuaded him.

This was his process of thought as he sat within the broken remains of one such towering skeleton of what he could vividly imagine before atomic fire had consumed the Earth, a chunk missing giving him a view as he ate his can of beans, the flooded zones below giving him the vertiginous thought of jumping, seeing if he'd hit the shallows at the base of the building or land far enough out to get a good swim, regardless of the radiation.

Once he was done with his midday lunch, the man incurred his baseball cap upon his head from where it once sat beside him and scrambled backwards and away from the edge, simultaneously producing a bandanna from his pocket and placing that across his face, and then turning his hat backwards, letting a tuft of brown hair poke out the gap between the buckle and arch.

He had never removed his sunglasses, despite the constantly overcast weather, and stood tall to produce his 9mm, casually strolling down the remains of the staircase that permitted entry and eventually away from the building, only switching to a more appropriate hunting rifle when beyond the view of the tower's entrance.

It was never safe to go light, lest you were one of those strange monster-men that walked the earth or a Behemoth, or seemingly apart of the Church of Thunder, a group that seemed to wear impenetrable armour and carried laser weapons, often accompanied by robots or any other strange technology.

Henry had steered clear of them so far, not wanting a confrontation he knew he couldn't win, since they had a tendency to kill any waster they saw that didn't fly the Flag of Thunder, their own personal brand that gave men and women in their territory free reign, or as much free reign as possible when under the influence of a megalomaniac imperium with about as much care for it's citizens as Super Mutants had for their captives.

Or so he'd heard, but this was not the only reason the scavenger had drawn a more powerful weapon.

He was being watched.

He felt eyes on him, and occasionally saw a fleeting shadow of someone, it was not a Super Mutant, for they were to clunky to be stealthy. It wasn't a Royal, as they only seemed to ever use power armour, and it certainly wasn't a raider simply because they weren't this patient, Delacroix having felt the eyes since the moment he had set out from the town of Bridgetown.

The aforementioned feeling was welling up inside of him again, and he hit the wall of an alley to look in all directions, finding nothing but ruined buildings and the imperious rain clouds above, smelling the stench of rainwater and waste mixing together around his feet and hearing naught but the occasional gunfire that he'd grown more accustomed to then the warm bed he'd slept in last night.

It was when he allowed his gaze to travel to the opposite wall directly across from him that the feeling of distress finally materialised, somewhat literally, or so it felt;

There before him, he saw a figure in dark clothes, greys and blacks that melded with the colours of the city, and wearing a gas mask that hid his features, protected him from the radiation and gave the eerie appearance of void emotion.

Though he immediately charged, Henry did not yell, drawing his combat knife he went to cut the man's throat horizontally, whom stepped to the right and Henry's left, out of his blade's reach before he drew his own. The man doubled back on one foot to slash upwards and hopefully through the scavenger's arm, but said man had none of it, and simply ducked and spun, his duster fluttering for a moment as he went for another horizontal swipe at the man's stomach.

The man popped back, jumping from both feet and letting his arms go high as he curled his torso in, following up with an acrobatic back flip that saw him on his hands for a moment and then on his feet again, in a similar position as before but without the fear of being shanked.

Henry went in for another stab, but was parried with the blade nearer the hilt before a gloved slap caught him across the cheek, stunning him for just enough time to allow the man to kick him in the diaphragm. He wheezed, but refused to go down so easily, the plating across his chest and ribs designed purposefully for this reason, and barrelled forward in an attempt to push the man over. He just side stepped it, but it gave Henry the chance to recover.

"Dick move, shit head." He groaned heatedly, and watched -though hunched- as the man sheathed his sword and took a step back. The masked fellow didn't answer, but instead gave a simple peace sign before turn tailing and sprinting off, something that dogged Henry into chasing after him, even though he knew it was likely a trap.

But hell if he was gonna give the bastard the satisfaction.

…

You had to stay fit in the wasteland, or so that's what James Oliver had been taught.

It was for the same reason that he was able to run after this strange masked fellow for so long, the bastard ambushing him in the ruinous 'undercity' -better known to some as the subways- before running off and above ground.

It occurred to James in the back of his mind that this was likely a trap, but he could care less, and while not of the stupid type did have a certain determination to catch up to this sprite fellow who only showed the waster his back, dodging the bullets with something of a third eye and using the decrepit environment to keep James at bay whenever he got too close.

But now he was gaining on him, in a relatively clear street save a few broken cars the man avoided himself, and it was with a somewhat cocky smirk that Oliver stepped up his run to a sprint in the hopes of tackling the fellow.

This, however, would not be the case, as while the man got near the tail ends of his opponent's coat he observed a similar fellow bound out of a side alley and onto the rusted remains of a car, jumping high and over what must have been a compatriot, wearing the same gas mask and sharing a high five before landing and continuing his run, and while James observed this he felt the crushing weight of a lunge before finding himself in a tangle of limbs with some stranger.

"What the fuck!" He yelled, a similar slight uttered by his fellow tripper, and when they rolled to a stop several feet away from the car and with the masked fellows getting away, the blond man scored a look at this stranger.

Both possessed green eyes, interestingly enough, though the man was older and scarred across the bridge of his nose, not even to mention the height of the fellow, standing at least a foot above James and possessing a great deal of presence even while sitting rather dejectedly on the ground besides what the man likely saw as a 'troublesome kid', or so the kid expected.

"Good job, good fucking job." The man dead panned, gathering himself from the ground and dusting himself off, before offering his arm to James, the flat line of an expression never leaving his face.

"Hey, you lunged, I blame you." James stated obviatingly, throwing his hands up before getting up by himself.

The man only grunted, growled and spat before fixing his pack, "Rats, I hate the OT."

Of course he referred to the well known yet mysterious Order of the Thames, a group of sword toting assassins who rarely spoke and seemed to act on their own accord, and some thought their organisation as a whole was a myth, several different, smaller groups actually behind the legends barmen told.

But this was far too precise to have been a couple of thrill seeking amateurs, and the older man recognised this, having already processed the thought as he was chasing the troublemaker, however James was not so forward thinking, and only looked at him dumbly for a moment before recognising what the man had said.

"Why did they do that, do you think?" James asked, but the man only snorted, brushing off the younger fellow with ease, "Hey!" He complained, annoyed he wasn't getting any respect from the man.

"Bloody yanks and your bloody persistent attitude," so it was the accent, "Well obviously they wanted us to meet. I'd like to know why," The man -having walked away a bit- looked over his shoulder, "You coming?"

James looked at him stupidly for a moment, before uhing and replying in the affirmative, "Well then let's get moving." The older man growled, and began walking again, James just on his heels.

…


	7. Laughable

**Sorry for the wait, I have been sick and lazy.**

**Don't complain, at least I'm bothering to feed you at all, as opposed to many authors on this site; enjoy.**

Carter was enjoying the troublesomeness of the Ghoul, inadvertently furthering his own intentions by making the girl think him over protective as he implied a wish to get away from the Australian. 'Jinx' was not doing well at keeping Athena from him, in any event.

The sun was just beginning to wane, and he had convinced the girl to come further into the compound with him, the Misfit outpost more a small town then anything else, and that included the smallest of hotels towards the back of the walled in militarised village.

Jinx had otherwise kept his distance, but followed them regardless, knowing rather obviously that Carter intended to use this girl for his own means. He was a man, what else was there?

But the Ghoul knew he couldn't stop the fellow regardless of what he did. Carter had weapons, he did not, and there was a certain air about this stranger that put him on edge even with the years of experience he had under the belt. The sun was only now beginning to drop from it's high horse, so if he let this guy get away with what he figured he wanted to get away with, then there was a good chance of Athena getting hurt, both physically and emotionally, and in his over contemplative mind Jinx had to imagine the worst possible outcome; pregnancy.

It made his decaying skin crawl more so than the maggots that would eventually set in, and he wouldn't have that happen if he could avoid it, especially in this terrible wasteland of England.

Both Carter and Athena were stopped at the door, a guard wielding a junk bow asking them of their intentions. When the former explained their need for a bed, the man chuckled and asked to see their caps, before letting them indoors afterwards, and Jinx knew he wouldn't get past that fellow with his poncho and blades and what not.

Damning his own peculiar mind, the would-be Ghoul turned heel and made a steady wake for the outer wall, grumbling the entire way and moaning on about those facts and why he bothered to help the girl, having grown accustomed to having his advice ignored for the most part but not when he needed it most listened too, and this was the first time the girl had pushed him away like this.

The best he could hope for now was that Athena pushed this 'Carter' away herself.

…

Malone watched down his binoculars, the exchange of gunfire noticeably different from the usual hubris of lead and explosions.

No in this instance one could see lasers being fired, tactics being carried out, and voices yelling hits and positions with all the efficiency of a well oiled machine. These were Royals, and they were on the south end of Bridgetown making a mess of the raider group that had been gathering there.

He would thank them, if he wasn't already concerned about the safety of the town itself, and called fourth a good thirty Misfits alongside the already stationed guard to ensure a deterrent for the Royals, the opportunistic bastards.

Regardless, the Power Armoured troops -and those without- finished beating back the raider forces until their remnants simply fled into the back alleys or down the street, some getting gunned down in the process, other escaping to tell the tale. After this they moved to the gate, forming a perimeter stretching back several buildings so that if they did launch into an assault it would be a long winded assault and well protected for the most part.

They were smart, they only stationed power armoured troops out in the open, who were less likely to die, and this gave Malone a good view of the admittedly attractive armour.

It's body was comprised of a pair of intersecting, rotund chest plates, forming an almost breast shaped chest piece over the interlocking, angular ridges afforded by the lower torso, giving the users some manoeuvrability effect. The pauldrons were three short, band aid shaped plates cascading down the upper arm, somewhat samurai in appearance but definitely British in creation.

The gloves and forearms were armoured, squared plates covering much of it's overall form and small lights flickering around the wrist, possibly some kind of quasi pip-boy, or so Malone thought from his own personal experiences.

The power armour's helmet was a rebreather like construction within it's lower half, permitting underwater breathing and a small tank upon the back of his neck. The top however was a thin, green screen, so the eyes were protected while still giving full view of the area, and it looked as though their may have been an inbuilt HUD by the glowing the glass purveyed. The top of the helmet was round and flat, something like a beret but with an antenna built into the side where the main mass would usually hang over.

They were armed with an assortment of weapons, though nothing smaller than a riot shotgun, and some had missile launchers and miniguns in stock, though none had been shouldered or otherwise imparted as they used their small arms to kill the pathetic raiders.

Noticeably, all their equipment was painted between a mixture of gold, burgundy and bronze, with some black interspersed more for lack of care then for a distinct desire to never go back. Regardless of their somewhat ridiculous regalia -some officers sporting epaulettes and aiguilettes- they still cut an imposing figure, though they looked in no better shape then the Misfits themselves, who while still uniform in generality had many add ons and replacement parts; stop signs, old ponchos and various masks and helmets among the many individualised decals upon each set of armour, though they generally kept to the yellow, orange and brown theme.

But it was when their commander stepped forward, the Royals anyway, that the tenseness of the air waned just a little.

He was an older man, perhaps a few years Malone's senior, with a cocked hat full of plumage and a moth eaten, double breasted jacket with tails and all worn in a grand façade of ordained importance, tattered from war and disuse, "Misfits!"

Malone leaned upon the railing of the southern gate -which actually pointed north- and lit a cigarette, looking to the man with some disbelief and saying casually, "That's us."

"You owe us a blood debt! Thirteen of our men were killed, now we will avenge those men!" The man yelled, clearly looking for a fight as he unsheathed his sword, an old thing with a rope that was once attached to a lanyard now unwoven and hanging so lamely as to be pitiful.

"What the bloody hell are you rambling on about? We haven't had any engagements with Royals for months now." Malone growled back, looking annoyed at the accusation.

"Name one other soul that would see harm come to her majesty?!" The officer challenged, and the soldier beside him visibly face palmed.

"The Order of the Thames, every fuckin' raider in the city, the Super Mutant coven, survivors of the thirteen communities you've sacked, the Ghouls of the railway." Malone listed off dully, looking to the sky as if to remember all the ghosts the Royals had produced.

There was a short silence before the officer responded, sheathing his sword and clearing his throat, "Point taken... We killed those raiders, you owe us."

"Yeah? Well we pulled your asses out of that Mutie attack with a rearguard assault. So we're even." Malone countered, and the officer swore.

"Come, it is time we withdrew!" The officer yelled, and the soldiers on both sides looked visibly disappointed that it had not come to combat, though the Misfits especially as the Royals at least had raiders to shoot at beforehand.

The Royals slowly gathered together and walked back, a few customary jeers being exchanged between them and the Misfits, before the group slowly retracted, walking off towards their bombed out Buckingham and leaving Malone feeling severely empty of expectancy, the whole exchange silly and unwarranted.

"God this wasteland is fucked, no matter who wins in the end." He groaned, and began his way back to the Misfit HQ.

…

**Uh, describing armour and factions, easiest way to waste wordspace.**

**As for OCs, I'm gonna start being a hardass and stop accepting if they're not interesting enough. With the way people handle the Special everyone can do everything, there are no massive flaws, it bugs me that I've created guys who are essentially Intelligence 8 and Strength 4 because it's a good plot device, but everyone else is a jack of all trades.**

**C'mon, be original.**

**That and the characters aren't very original, they're just not... Creative, I mean half of them wear sunglasses and masks, have leather armour and 9mm pistols. Use something not from the games, England is the post war centre of travel, make them a South African or a Chinese person, give them energy weapons and junk swords, use your imagination.**

**But having said that, if you go overboard they'll just end up Mary Sue-ishly over powered, and I will rectify that in the story, I have characters made to put people in perspective.**

**Regardless, keep pm'ing me, perhaps it'll be good fun, and if you're a beta looking for work, do contact me, I feel I need a bouncing board of some distinction.**

**Thanks for reading, and listening to me subsequently ramble, and I'll see you next time.**


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